A Portrait of My Life Without You
by Novus Ordo Seclorum
Summary: Some decisions change our lives forever...


Portrait of My Life Without You

"Never regret anything because at one time, it was exactly what you wanted..."

I shouldn't be here, that much I know. I have no right to be. Still, something within me stirs and no matter what I do or how desperately I try to resist, sentimentality gets the better of me. More often than not, it catches me by surprise. For months on end—sometimes even years—I'll feel very little; my emotions barely move me, mere ripples against the dam that is my resolve. Then, when I least expect it, my mind wanders a path that only leads to him. My resolve may be a dam, but he is torrential. I hold out for as long as I can, hoping each time that I will finally find the strength to endure, but as always I succumb.

Of late, I've thought of him often. When I look in a mirror and see my reflection—that of a pallid, unremarkable shrew—I recall the gentle softness in his eyes when he looked upon me. When I wake in the night, jolted from slumber by battles past, I recall the nights we spent in each other's arms and the thunder in my heart retreats. When I am weak, he is my strength. When I am troubled, he is my salvation. In matters of the heart, I am as steady as a stone until it comes to him.

That's why I'm here, I suppose—standing beneath a large silver maple in a backyard in suburbia. The familiarity of it is comforting. Beds of lilies, dahlias, and gladiolas spill forth from the perimeter of the privacy fence enclosing the yard. The fence, made of cedar and crowned with a lattice, complements the aromatic flora; a unique undertone I can only describe as autumnal, when combined with the fragrance of summer blooms, delights and perplexes the senses. On one side of the yard, two charter oaks stand, their slender, gnarled branches dancing to no particular rhythm. A hammock is slung between the knobby trunks, a shady oasis on summer afternoons. The middle of the yard features a vegetable garden, overflowing with leafy greens and produce; a cobblestone walkway, lined with small landscaping lights, connects the garden to the back patio of the house. Against the red-orange spill canvas that is the sunset, this place is nothing short of breathtaking. For the first time in weeks, I feel at ease.

I walk from beneath the canopy of the silver maple and up the cobblestone walkway to the back patio. A small, slate tile bistro table flanked by two chairs stands surrounded by hanging baskets of begonias and pansies. Briefly, I imagine what it must be like to sit here, sipping tea and taking in the sunrise. I envision how the dew must cling to the grass and shine like gold-flake in the morning light; how birdsong must fill the air and give the spirit wings so that it may soar; mostly though, I think of what it would be like to share such a moment with him—to have him by my side as the world comes to life around us.

As the warmth and light of day retreat, so do my fantasies. The sun has given way to the moon and the yard is dark with the exception of the silver-lined silhouettes of the leaves on the trees. With Eden cloaked, I turn my attention to the house. Instinctively, I am drawn to a bay window; like a harlot it shines with in unabashed radiance, open to the world and adorned in lacy beige curtains that hang half-closed, swelling and deflating to the pleasure of the breeze. Curious, I lift myself into the air and maneuver to the side of the window to a place where I can see yet remain unseen. Gathering all of my courage and nerve, I swallow hard and peer inside. The image that greets me is Rockwellian: A tall, slender woman sets a large bowl of salad in the middle of a dining room table. With great care and precision, she pulls a stray strand of her long brown hair behind her ear before giving each place-setting a once-over. Satisfied, she pulls a matchbook from her pocket and lights two long tapers—wax soldiers standing vigilantly at attention.

"Gar," She calls, "Can you pull out the soup bowls and let Mark and Coraline know it is time for dinner? I have to thicken the soup."

As she turns toward the kitchen, he flutters in from an adjoining room in the guise of a monarch butterfly. In an instant, he takes his form and wraps her in his arms. At first she recoils, clearly startled; then, she smiles and starts to laugh.

"You little sneak!" She manages, trying to sound authoritative while chuckling madly.

"I live to bring excitement to your life, my dear darling."

"There's never a dull moment with you, Gar. I nearly jumped out of my skin! You should save surprises like that for Monday morning—it would be more effective than coffee."

He kisses her cheek and rests his chin on her shoulder.

"Are you sure you want me to get the kids? You know, it's probably not too late to drop them on someone's doorstep, ring the bell, and take off."

"Oh, you stop that. No one dotes on them more than you do."

He releases her from his grasp, retrieves the bowls from the cupboard and sets them on the table. "What is it about teenagers, though? One day you're playing with your kids and having an awesome time together, and the next thing you know, they turn thirteen and everything you do is embarrassing, humiliating, or—my personal favorite—'lame.'"

"They're just trying to find their way, honey. They won't be like this forever. It's a phase."

"I guess. Maybe I just miss the days when they didn't think that everything I do is somehow an attempt to ruin life as they know it."

"I remember when I was their age…" She stirs the pot simmering on the stove celeritously; tendrils of steam rise into the air and lap at her cheeks until they are ruddy. "All I wanted was to fit in. I wanted people to like me and I wanted to be one of the cool popular kids. I wanted to wear the best clothes, have the best things, and distance myself from my parents a bit—even when they wanted what was best for me. You grew up so fast and were so responsible by the time you were their age that you were beyond rebellion for rebellion's sake. You're a great father…but you can't expect the kids to live by the same timeline you did growing up."

A goofy smile stretches across his face as he stares down at the place-settings on the table. He shakes his head and chuckles to himself as if privy to an inaudible joke. "I don't want them to grow up the way I did. It's no way to live. But I will tell you one thing, my dear darling… Not knowing whether you were going to live or die on a daily basis makes you more appreciative of what you've got."

He disappears down hallway and emerges a minute later with two kids in tow. With little fanfare, they sit at the dining room table and begin filling their bowls with soup and plates with leafy green vegetables.

I find voyeurism unsettling. I suppose to those whom it comes naturally, it is exhilarating; after all, they are somewhere they should not be clandestinely viewing things they have no business seeing. I, on the other hand, take no pride in the practice. I am painfully aware that I am intruding on a private family moment. Many years back, after the Titans and I defeated Plasmus in battle, I felt grimy for days; as though bits and pieces of his slime were burrowing beneath my skin. I can't help but feel that way now, like the grit and slime has returned as punishment for my curiosity. I turn away from the window, ashamed of myself and my weakness—for being unable to move on with my life without looking in on him every so often.

"Dad," An airy female voice manages with seeming reluctance, "Will you at least hear us out?"

Ignoring pangs of guilt, I glance back through the window. My eyes find their way to the voice's keeper. To most, the color of her skin would likely be her defining feature; like her father's it is green, however it is a much lighter, less noticeable shade. To me, however, it is her eyes. They are the same color and hold the same fire as Gar's. Her shoulder-length brown hair is pulled back into a loose ponytail, making her look even younger than she is.

"Not now, Coraline." Gar replies gently, yet firmly. "I'll be happy to listen to you try to convince me of your point of view later on, but right now we're having dinner. Let's not spoil a nice meal with an argument."

"What's the difference if it's now or later?" Gar's son, Mark—the spitting image of his father at age 13—retorts pointedly, his words laced with venom. "You won't listen anyway."

"Mark! That's no way to speak to your father!"

"Why not? He never listens. Why would he care what I have to say?"

"All Mark and I want is for both of you to hear us out." Coraline says evenly. "We've brought this up a couple of times, but I don't think either of you have really heard a thing we have said."

"Give it up, Cor." Mark mutters, "They aren't going to listen…"

"Mark Logan!" His mother exclaims, "I will not stand for rudeness in this house!"

Gar dabs his mouth with a napkin and tosses it onto his plate. Calmly, he turns in his chair to face his son, whose features are hardened by defiance.

"I've heard you—both of you. The constant whining and complaining; the accusations of being uncaring or out-of-touch… Frankly, I'm tired of it. Your mother and I have done the best we can to raise you right and do what we thought was best for you. Then, when all of the sudden you feel you've been wronged, we're the bad guys. Let me tell you something, son, there are people in the world who have suffered greater injustices than you have."

"That's not what we're trying to say, Daddy." Coraline squeaks, trying to placate her father.

"Then let's put this to rest. The answer is NO. This is not a negotiation. It's what's best for both of you."

At this, between bites of salad, Mark mumbles something I cannot decipher.

"Care to repeat that, young man?"

"I said you're doing what's best for YOU! You don't care what Cor and I want. All you care about is how it makes you look. Like it would somehow change what people think of you. Well, I'm tired of being different! I'm tired of the kids at school telling me that I look like a stick of spearmint gum! I'm tired of people giving me funny looks and keeping away from me because they think they'll catch a disease or something! I just want to be normal!"

"Why do you care what people think of you? Being normal is…"

"Overrated?! Yeah, we know. You've only told us that a million times. Do you wanna know what's really overrated, Dad? Being a FREAK."

That word, particularly the way Mark said it, sent a shiver through me. The room is completely silent now, picturesque in sight alone; in sentiment it is an amalgamation of shock, anger, and sadness. Without a word, Gar stands. He clears his place at the table and sets his soup bowl and plate on the counter beside the sink. Waves of frustration and disappointment radiate from him; it is a familiar pain, one he has borne for as long as I've known him. He stares out the window, the gears in his mind spinning to no particular end.

"Dad?" Coraline whispers, "Are you okay? I'm really sorry, Dad, I shouldn't have brought it up… It's my fault…"

Gar turns to face her. "It's alright…"

Mark, realizing the magnitude of his words, sinks in his chair remorsefully. "Dad, um, I…uh…"

Gar walks to his son's side and places a hand on his shoulder. "I may be a freak. But I'm not ashamed…"

With his head high, he walks from the dining room into the blackness of an adjoining room.

I lower myself from beside the window to the patio, feeling as though all of air has been forced from my lungs. The scene that unfolded before me was hauntingly familiar, like I had opened a portal to the past. When we first met, it was clear that Gar struggled with who—and maybe even what—he was. He hid it well; to most, he came off as a lighthearted jokester—someone who lived entirely in the moment. To me, he was a maelstrom of raw emotion. There were times, particularly when I was struggling to control my powers, that I distanced myself from him. I suppose I felt I was being responsible; that keeping my distance ensured that his emotions would not unhinge my own and cause something dreadful to happen…

Regret is part of life. Through the day-to-day process of living, we try our best to choose the right path: sometimes the choice is neat and tidy; others it is difficult for any number of reasons. Looking back on my youth, my greatest regret is how I abandoned Gar. He always looked at me with affection in his eyes. In turn, I broke his heart to keep him an arm's length away. Seeing his face a moment ago, after his son spewed the word 'freak' from his mouth as though it were something vile, brought back memories of how I hurt him when we were younger—when I was foolish enough to treat him as an obstacle rather than an ally.

The door to the patio swings open with a groan, derailing my train of thought. Reflexively, I open a portal and step inside, hiding myself amidst the darkness. I watch silently as Gar steps out on the patio. His short-sleeved button-down shirt flaps in the breeze, sending waves of cotton heaving against his body. He thrusts his hands into the pockets of his khakis and lifts his gaze skyward, paying his respects to the cosmos.

The process of aging is truly remarkable. Many features are ravished by time: skin wrinkles and droops, waistlines advance, and hairlines recede or turn grey. Yet there are some things that never change. As l look at Gar—the first time I have studied him closely in many years—I am taken aback by all that has changed and all that has remained the same. There are fine lines around his mouth and crow's feet stretching from the corners of his eyes, yet his toothy smile and fiery gape are as indicative of him as they ever were. His hair, once a veritable forest of green, has given way to indiscriminate patches of grey—badges of courage in the face of life's many challenges. If there is one undeniable truth about the mortal world, it is this: time erodes. All things must have an end in due time. Hidden within that truth, though, is an addendum: time can also enrich. The man standing before me, though distinctly the boy I once knew, has been enhanced by his life's journey.

For the first time in a long while, I smile. I frame the image of him against a backdrop of stars in my mind to keep me company on sleepless nights when I hear his voice.

"Raven," He says softly, "I know you're here. Why don't you come out?"

I freeze in place. It is as though my body has detached from my mind and I cannot muster the strength to move. Ambivalence is sometimes attributed to a lack of clarity. In my situation, it may be the result of excessive clarity. On one hand, every fiber of my being yearns to speak with Gar—to be more than an apparition lingering on the outside looking in. On the other hand, I know exactly what will happen if I share a moment with him. All of the years I have spent and time I have invested reining in my feelings for him will be for naught and I will pine for him all over again.

"How did you know?" I ask, stepping from my portal.

"C'mon Raven," He says, chuckling to himself, "I know you too well. Besides, when I was reaching for the soup bowls, I could smell lavender on the breeze. After all these years, you still use the same incense…"

A lump in my throat rises like mercury in a thermometer. The only thing more embarrassing than being a voyeur is being caught in the act.

"Look, Gar," I squeak out contritely, "I'm sorry for coming around uninvited… I know I shouldn't have, but I…"

"It's fine, really it is. I'm glad to see you. And you look great! Just as I remember…"

"Oh yeah…" My voice drips with sarcasm, "Everyone is just beating down my door trying to learn my secret beauty regimen…" I shake my head and change the subject, "You, on the other hand, really do look good."

"For my age," He replies with a grin, "Which isn't really saying much. I wish I could tell you that I have aged gracefully, but I have battled it kicking and screaming. I guess part of me thought I was going to be young forever—that by some magic I wasn't going to get old. I guess not everyone can age like a fine wine or Clint Eastwood."

"I think that you have."

"My kids would tell you different." Gar walks over to the small bistro table, pulls out a chair, sits down, and motions for me to join him; I acquiesce. "Mark and Coraline think that I am hopelessly out-of-touch. Thirteen years old and they think they know it all…"

"Weren't we the same way, though?"

"I know I was. I was the all-powerful Beast Boy of the Teen Titans. I thought that I knew everything. It's taken me this many years to realize that ninety percent of everything I thought I knew at thirteen was wrong. But I guess it was different for us."

"How so?"

"We grew up together. All of us. You, Me, Dick, Victor, Star… We were all that we had. There were no parents to watch out for us; no adults to give us advice or lead us in the right direction; no one to shelter us or look out for our best interest. We watched out for one another and we rallied around each other. We learned on the fly because we had to. Mark and Coraline have Elyse and me to show them the way, but they just won't listen."

"Then they'll learn the hard way, like we did. Would that be so bad?"

He sighs heavily and rubs his eyes roughly with his thumb and forefinger, the way he always does when he is upset.

"What is it, Gar?" I ask _sotto voce, _"What's wrong?"

"Ever since they were born, I've wanted to protect them. I have done everything I could to be there for them. I promised myself that I would do whatever I had to do to support them and raise them right." He raises his gaze to meet mine. "I have never hid from the world. Ever since I can remember, I have been the way I am. There were times that I wanted to change the way I look, for whatever reason. But I've come to learn that the way people react to you is a reflection of them; if they can't accept you at face value, they aren't worth the time or effort."

The look on my face must be one of befuddlement, because as I am about to ask him to explain, he continues.

"Last week, we visited Vic. He likes to have us over and we all enjoy his company. Anyway, he and I were talking about the olden days—like we old folks tend to—when he mentioned Holo-rings. Almost immediately after that, the kids—who had previously accepted themselves as they were—started pestering me and begging me to let Vic make them Holo-rings so that they look 'normal.' It's like everything I've ever taught them about being themselves and being proud of who they are has gone in one ear and out the other."

He crosses his arms and looks down at the small slate tiles that comprise the bistro table's surface. I reach across the table, put a hand on his shoulder, and give it a light squeeze.

"Not everyone is as strong as you, Gar. They may not appreciate everything you do now, but one day they will understand… That I can say from experience…"

He looks at me quizzically, pleading for elaboration. What would he think of my desires? About how I spent entire days dreaming of those we spent together? What would he think of me if he knew my heart still belonged to him after all of these years? In life, there are things we leave unsaid; more often than not, they end up being the things we regret the most. I've lived long enough with regret and remorse to know that they are as eternal as I.

"There is something that I've been meaning to say to you for a long time." My voice is strained and weak. "I'm really sorry that…that I hurt you."

His brow furrows. "What do you mean?"

I take a deep breath and steady myself. "You and I… We had something special once, didn't we?"

He nods. "We did."

"And I threw it away… And I really sorry… really I am." I can feel tears pooling in my eyes.

"Rae, it's alright. It's ok. It just wasn't meant to be, that's all." He takes my hand in his. "You have nothing to be sorry for."

A breeze filters through the trees. Collectively, the quivering leaves sound like water rushing over a cataract. The crickets are out now, singing somniferous lullabies in a round. Though the world around me exudes tranquility, I feel more distressed than ever.

I left Gar for one reason: my heritage. Foremost, I knew that Gar wanted children and the last thing I wanted to do was pass my demonic pedigree on to another. I was also aware that I would not age like a normal woman. The thought of out-living Gar—or even worse, our children—frightened me to no end. I knew that I had to let him go. After all he'd been through, Gar deserved to live his life to the fullest—to be as happy as he could possibly be.

Years ago, I felt I was being merciful. Now I am unsure. Did I make the decision for Gar's sake or my own? Was I being cautious or cowardly?

In the process of trying to save Gar from a life with me, did I condemn myself to a life of regret and unhappiness?

"Are you happy, Gar?"

"Am I happy?"

"Yes. Are you?"

"I am. The good days outnumber the bad by a long shot. Elyse is an amazing woman—she looks beyond what's on the surface and has been incredibly accepting of my past and supportive of whatever I choose to do. The kids are a joy…even when they are driving me crazy. Watching them grow up has been an adventure all its own. When all is said and done at the end of the day, I know that I have a great life…" His brow furrows. "Why do you ask, Rae?"

I feign a smile. "I'm glad."

I can feel my emotions stirring and I know it is time for me to leave. I've said what needed to be said and know that when the pain subsides, I will heal in due course. I get up from the table and quickly turn from Gar, preparing to open a portal.

"Raven, wait!" He says.

And I do.

"Would you like to come inside?" He holds the door to the patio open, gesturing inside. "Meet the family?"

I've spent years wondering what might have been; catching occasional glimpses of his life whenever curiosity got the better of me. Now, he's offering me a chance to be a part of it.

In turn, I smile and walk toward the light and warmth of his home.

Thank you all for reading! Please tell me what you think!


End file.
